Writings
by whale sugarpjauan
Summary: Liberal experimentation; completely original writing, characters, development: I only chose Mythology because I had nothing else to closer relate this sort of satirical, tragic character and story, which I have yet to conquer choosing a plot for. Profanity, metacognition, drug mention. Don't like, don't read. REVIEW PLEASE! I can only improve by being let known how to!
1. Dear Hello

Hello. I've wanted to talk, just a bit. Let me start out by vomiting some literary post modern expressionism, because that's absolutely daft.

A fragrance like coupled birds and forming rust began its descent from the whirling grey skies that murmured above. Slowly at first, an unnamable dietty began to weep, but then very suddenly: a clap between loud hands and a writhing of furious light came thrashing and lunging towards the Earth. Rain grappled at the cement, attempting to reach soil in a rush to kiss the planet's core, draping and withering and looping beneath, over, hither to- down- past at the skins of people that raced the surface. New York City never before displeased me to this vigorous intensity.

I don't think I have a name, I've realized.

On a completely irrelevant note: rhetoricals do not exist. For example, in the case of a rhetorical question; it is an excuse to debase and to cognitively destroy any vectors of return, any notion of recognition, which is the very driving point of all intelligence and ascension of scientific evolution. If a man does not expect an answer from another after having finished a question, he names it a 'rhetorical question', though since he does not afore contemplate the possibility of an answer, it does not seem likely that what he had wound up producing could be a question, regardless of whether or not a question mark would be recorded in the structural sentence as a result of vocal annunciation or accent. Furthermore, a rhetorical statement is exactly similar to this, except expressed on paper without a query mark, which actually symbolizes nothing to me, though that's personal and my beliefs are not professionally allowed to intervene with the item at hand: rhetorical analysis, the last concept I must pulverize, is defined by means to persuade, to embark, to constitute, not to refute, to use evidence to pressure something, not to use evidence to think about something which is, by truth, what analysis means, or at least in my knowledgeable experience and comprehension. Following the myth of rhetoricals is like labelling a few simple items with a neater-sounding name with means to sociologically simplify and make more lesser-mindedly accessible; at hand, if you will- for stupid people-

\- and that people begin categorizing things, butchering things, deflating stomachs and drilling acids and plastering over looks and thoughts and senses, defeating molds, ruining individuality and defining and deceiving society, bodies on screens, putting masses into jars, plunging out the classic, the truth, the nasty buggers the feeble simply cannot conceive- pump out and fish out and thrust out forever questions without answers, faces without masks, tongues lapping, rotted, desperately at their own lips to contain a repetitive comfort; living lives without colour to paint over screens, walls, floors and teeth; selling their damned preserves off on brick streets, croaking in heat, growing rich and fat, losing sleep, and trying to make a lot of sense and a lot of ability out of a hunk of rock and dust floating about a mass of humdrum space as time forever knocks itself on by, relativity, light and physical theories; grinning and gay, praising stone- philosophers going mad, scientists gray in the head, humanities and arts and mathematics being handed their own noose by a craze of laughing puppets, gagging and gibbering about off of twine, and to think they're systematics behind it all?

What tomfoolery.

Systematics do not exist, either. And to get it straight, between you and me, Hello, neither does neuroplasticity, physiology, shit. Ethics are iffy, too. Consciousness does not have a good rap, or at least not to me, and in fact has fallen between my fingers at this point. Alike reality. Existence is a whole bunch of toilsome sorcery, and universal law isn't really my cup of tea, either. Damn theoretical physicists, thinking they can pin down such a void. Dreams and courage do not exist, neither does any cause-effect loony and petty fantasy-esque emotions and actions. Love does not exist. Society is completely damned. I'm not all here, either.

I don't believe in God, I don't believe in anything. I welter between waves of meeting standards to turbulence of absolute madness. As much as belched poetry this sounds, I consider myself a ghost. A legless, bloodless soul wandering alone and blindly through a maze of histories and philosophies. Gouged my eyes, knocked my ears, lost my body.

How life amuses me, especially. Thank you, Hello, for listening to that moral bunches. (Morals are wrong, too)

Some lighter event:

I've been to the most neat coffee shoppe. Tinni's Tasty Coffee Shoppe. Two and a half blocks from my apartment building. I don't memorize street names, by the way. Places just appear, in-between lines of gray and white. Easy enough.

People are horrifying. Sometimes I think I shouldn't have been born one, as it's so difficult to have to communicate with the things. Especially at Tinni's, where humanity particularily scares me, but I've been working well to not let the appearance of bearded visitors from Portland (wielding flannel, flashing sandals and wire-rimmed glasses painted orange and bright pink, armed in both hands with cello bags filled up with candies, quarters, and foil-blanketed portions of cocaine, LSD, heroin, and marijuana) convince me that the beverages they serve at Tinni's is at all distasteful, since it is very much the opposite. Carbohydrates, High Fructose Corn Syrup, and mass quantities of Sugars are my only friends. But they're a pain in the ass.

That, and my best friend from Idaho, but he's also a pain in the ass.

I don't think he has a name, either, I've comprehended.

Hello?

What's a name?


	2. Rooms

"Quit that."

"Quit what?"

"Talking like that. Are you schizophrenic? You're not on a stage."

"Never said I was. You're starting to frustrate me."

"Just being assertive."

"There's also 'ass' in 'assertive. I applaud your ability to multi-task."

"Very, very funny."

"Was that sarcasm?"

"No, not at all. It's hilarious. So much that laughing just kind of- er, passed by, if you will."  
"Am I the only person who's ever had the urge to kill you so strongly?"

"Probably not. I'm a Musical Theatre major."

"I beg to differ."

"Hm?"

"Get out of my room."

"Again, you are how old this year? Want me to count it on my fingers?"

"While you can, dear."

There was a long pause. Neither of us had anything to do but stare into each other's eyes and think about how much we were passionately beset and undeniably enraged. Had it been an hour we were arguing like this? But the dialogue seemed so absolutely vital to the escalation between ourselves. Sweet little Paul was being a legitimate ass for the first time since the neighbor's boys nailed the collar of his shirt to a tree and wrote a song titled, respectively- "Not Tall Paul", in a surge of adolescent revenge for being the first among 8 year olds to get a grown-up bicycle. On the other hand, I felt no change in basic personality and expression, as I usually converse in this fashion. Yet its compatibility with Paul's nature were failing with every breath. Thinking this, I took a moment to look at Paul, and to read the rather legible process rolling within his brain, beneath his curly head of Faerie Floss, which quivered a bit- as his entire body was quivering- a tiny, pale man with painted eyes and a pink and freckled face, arms curled with blonde hairs, thighs from beneath denim shorts charcoal-coloured still though he's been away from the Theatre for 5 hours now. A striped sweater draped past his waist and wrinkled at his wrists, making him look plump and delightful though if you were to catch him from behind and pull up that woolen facade, it would be no more obvious that he's just a scrawny and runted puppy. I thought cynically about such event ever taking place in public. I thought cleverly about such metaphorical meaning. I thought for a long time, until Paul's feminine, pointed nose pressed into mine, but it wasn't friendly. It was almost a palpable animalistic implication. Violent.

"Quit that." he began again.

"Quit what?"

"You keep spacing out. I'd actually like to reach an ultimatum."  
"I've got one." I backed up, containing myself, folding arms.

"Alright, then?"

"You get out of my room- er, perhaps I would get much-needed sleep. Then I'll kill you in the morning."

"Why is it me that needs killing?"

"First of all, you're in my room, under my roof, wormed aside my life- I am the victim here. Self-defence is key."

"Does it ever occur to you that you're not the only one wanting to defend themselves?"

"What am I doing to victimize you?"

"Gosh, I'm adorable. I get by."  
"You're going to need more evidence than that."

Almost immediately after the words left my mouth, Paul was rocking himself back and forth, gnawing on his bottom lip, and making these small soft sounds like he just got out of an insanity treatment centre. I almost wanted to laugh, but then Paul was in my face again, his thick eyebrows knitted together in desperation, his teeth showing in a strain as he whispered,

"July, I've forgotten what we were arguing about in the first place."

"So have I, but just go with it."

"W-Wait, why-"

"Because it's keeping everything else at bay. It's nice."

"Well, it's not nice when we're just arguing for _no_ reason."

"Shh. Yell at me, say something crazy."

"I just came in here to talk. What did I want to talk about? I wanted something."

"Shh. You're ruining the vibe.

"We're in Iceland. We built a snow cave in the hillside. This isn't your bedroom, it's the only place we are allowed."

"Oh, yes, that's right. Now get angry about it. It's my fault. Attack me, Paul."

"Or else we'd freeze to death. I'm wearing shorts. I'm cold."

I sighed in massive exasperation, falling onto my back and drilling my palms over my eyes. Reality has been so difficult to grasp these last few days. Of course, I had been seeing things, and after the ride from Great Britain- what with the men and with the people and with Tanni's Coffee Shoppe and the Smarties and were our Kombuchas laced with something? Oh God: it could have been anything. Wriggling my hips over the luggage we had packed in as a bed and pulling the stolen quilt over my chin, I retraced the events of the still continuing night. The men and the people and with Tanni's Coffee Shoppe and our Kombuchas must have been laced with something, or else I _have_ become a schizophrenic. I'm seeing colours, I'm harbouring beasts.

"July, why have I forgotten that?"

"Your damn Kombuchas, I think."

"I'm cold. Can't you share that quilt? I'm in shorts."

"And a sweater."

"Can't you share that?"

"That's a thick sweater, and I'm in a shirt."

"And jeans."

"This quilt isn't large enough."

"Would you like me to die?"  
"You've been fine 'till now- with all that thinking, you've burned out your internal heat."

"You can share a quilt, okay, can't you?"

"I can't. I'm cold, too, ya know."

"I'm so small."

"Are you saying I'm overweight?"  
"I weigh less than 110 lbs."

"Good. Narrower center of gravity- friction, heat. You're fine. You're not dead."

"By morning, perhaps."  
"Definitely by morning, but not by cold. You're trying my patience. Maybe I should nip this in the bud now."

"You're still on to that?"

"I've got some rope left over from that Warwick thing. We can make it fun."

"Not really in the mood to die right now, and I'm sorry you still think that."

"Is anybody?"

"Hm?"

"In the mood to die, ever?"

"You, perhaps."

All impulses to be satirical were rooted out from my mind at that last comment. My eyes narrowed at the small space

between myself and the rock-solid ceiling of pearly snow before me, and I saw static orbs dancing in every inch I conceived visually. Letting out a soft grunt, I rose back to a sitting position and leaned against the wall of the cave, letting the blanket droop by my waist. I couldn't see much. It was dark, for one, but also white and whirring and turning and breathing became exceptionally difficult.

"You, perhaps."

Was it true? Sure, I had issues growing up. Sure, I had depressive and anxious attacks. Sure, there's a file in New York's Presbyterian Hospital with my name on it, alongside the words 'Manic/Depressive', 'Bipolar 1', and 'Flight Risk'. Sure, doesn't everyone hear voices? Sure. But suicide or self-harm doesn't belong in such 'sure's. My blood boiled at the very notion. Sociological categorization, definition, individual destruction, loss of ethics purpose, political debasing, rhetorical prestigious figures, idols, cowardice, media, psychosis, hallucinations, needles and lights and towers upon gold, people seated upon thrones, grovellers, thieves, liars and fakers and haters and dead people who just look alive, who just act alive, who just flit their bodies about like a ghost inside their own heads, but why is it all just?

And when did it all begin?

"Goddammit." I gasped, my shaking fingers drawing shapes over my wrists, my cheeks wavering as I had been babbling

inaudibly, subconsciously, for the last minute and a half now, and Paul had said nothing. I ran my tongue over chapped lips, wiped a bead of sweat off of my temple with a quivering finger, and kicked the blanket off my legs as all of a sudden I was boiling.

"Look," Paul, seeing I was back to consciousness, cautiously moved towards me, visibly shaking as well, though I knew not if it was from the cold or basic fear, "I didn't mean anything by that."

I couldn't respond. My entire body rocked in a convulsion, teeth banging in reddened gums, ears coiling with steam, my breath entering and exiting rapidly; hyperventilation. I slammed my eyes shut and tried breathing correctly, but all the words and places and faces and numbers just came hither to- and I began collapsing in on myself in spastic, rushed movements of stretching and hunching over, until I was gagging and coughing and shouting at the air with immense force.

"Oh, god-" I heard Paul exclaim, and I felt cold skin meet mine.

"Off!" I screamed, writhing away from the feeling.

Paul wrestled me like a wrangler would a steer. He was shockingly able for such a tiny man, but sheer desperation and my current dilemma served to his advantage as he heaved his own body over mine, his lean legs drilling down over either side of my waist, which twisted and bucked as I tried to fight away. Two hands clasped themselves with mine, and twisted my arms to the small of my back. I wailed like a small child, panted and whined uncontrollably.

"Settle down, it's nothing." Paul, with all the self-control he could have possibly mustered, spoke softly and levelly into my ear, "breathe in, and count to 1."

I huffed prestigiously at first, and breathed in, counting in my head a tangible '1'. Shocked at my newfound power, I held my breath, having completed that task.

"Alright, good," Paul sighed, seemingly impressed, "now breath out and count to 1."

I did so, this time with more confidence. Biting my tongue to prevent hyperventilating again, I waited for further instructions- submitting completely to this given advice; something I had never done afore then.

"Breath in, count to 2. Breath out, count to 2." Paul, discovering his words had influenced myself, continued. I obeyed and found myself focusing less on the universe and more on the tallies that round themselves up on the walls of my mind, and more on the air that swam in and out between my teeth rhythmically

"Breathe in, count to 3. Breathe out, count to 3. Breathe in, count to 4. Breathe out, count to 4. Breathe in, count to 5. Breathe out, count to 5. Breathe in, count to 6. Breathe out, count to 6. Breathe in, count to-"

"Oh, are you kidding me? I can't hold my breath that long."

"You could, you just don't want to try."

"True, that."

With an emotional sigh, Paul released me and rolled off, back onto our luggage bed, to pull his knees to his chest, to bury his face in his hands, and to sleep.

After a moment of irrelevant clairvoyance, I joined him on the opposite side of our luggage bed, to stretch my limbs and to drag in a breath lasting 7 seconds, exhale one similar lasting 7 seconds, and to sleep- not even considering constituting the exercise onto literal terms until I would hold my breath for infinite seconds.

But this universe is finite. Funny, that.

I fell asleep and I stayed asleep for about an hour. Then I awoke and remained so for five and a half hours, sitting in a corner of the snow cave, burrowed in half of a hole, staring at the sky curiously through a thin sheet of snow; counting stars and asking questions. Paul, dear thing, was asleep for all of the night, and I was glad. He needed sleep, and he deserved it. I, however, deserved nothing- and that's what I received. I took the abyss gladly, drank the oblivion with gratitude.

The sky mystified me. It was black, but everything was visible. The snow and ice rounded itself around in a convex shape beneath the sheer fabric that was the darkness of the air. Space seemed to be kissing, even explicitly licking and moaning into the bowl of the North, stars racing past my eyes in an explosion of philosophical romanticism between our galaxy and a lonely planet. My eyelids grew strained, as if two screws had been drilled into each socket, bound to each star with twine. I leaned forward and gaped, just letting myself drift between consciousness and open-eyed sleep, nestled in the bosom of the dark and powdered sky.

"You should get some sleep." Paul whispered in my direction after a while.

"Busy." I snapped.

"What are you even doing out there?"

"Watching."  
"What, exactly?"

"Everything, I guess. It's pretty."

"Everything?"

"The Universe. Where did it come from? Why does it go through all the bother of existing?"

"Don't ask questions like that."

"Why not?"

"You're easy to set off."

"You're one to talk."

"I don't think I need to spell metaphysical existentialism for you."  
"Well, I see you are familiar with my studies. You listen. Good thing."

"Shut up, alright? Just get some sleep."

"You're the one in _my_ room."

A melodramatic pause.

"I'm not in your room."


	3. the infinite cross-stick

an

infinite cross-stick

sat beneath wooden boards

its nose snuffling about

the corner of its while

all the riled hour

child searched for

their

infinite cross-stick

ridden amethyst

and split birch

wrapped at the waist

in a palm-convenient sash

sweaty and grime

gripped tall time

until torn beneath dust

the

infinite cross-stick

sat nameless in fingers

out from

sat beneath wooden boards

writhed like worms

she foamed at the mouth

and the

infinite cross-stick

went knocking

about


	4. Speaking, the Teapot, RACES

**ALAS, IT IS ALIVE AND OMNIPOTENTLY SPEAKING**

 **GOOD FOR IT IS BEFORE**

 **TRUSTED ONCE BROKEN AND SCORCHED**

 **ANONYMOUS**

 **DEFECTED REFRACTED NEGLECTED EXCITE, EXTRACT, EVOKE, ENTICE...INVOKE, INVITE, INTERTWINE, GOLD AND FESTERED MINDS**

 **TAG ALONG, FRESHLY SUNG SONG, glisten beneath my head; a planet greets me from 'round the bend, and in a bend, I bend, I contort, I rewind and send**

 **back and back and back again**

 **Hello and I've got some hands.**

 **Hello and head and limbs and a foot or two.**

 **Hello and perhaps a heart.**

 **Hello and I'm certain a brain, else I wouldn't be**

 **writing**

 **there is a teapot which spins on a needle interwoven with thread sculpted from it; four spouts knotted with what their separate heads possess a door in that teapot bubbles below brass handles of spring engulfed in that teapot with sap, birch, glass and weeds holding the world in its belly perpendicular to**

 **everything else**

 **until erupts- a whistle**

 **horizontal to**

 **nothing at all**

while they ran, like arms on a fan

I could only shake my head and stand

watched cedars take flight

into an unpromising night

then while I stood

they? understood?  
couldn't hear

but something: here

and of course- the next time I speak

velocity reaches its peak

everyone falls and time goes dim

unbalanced we are though lined and drilled like pins

passed us by were the fairer

season left, lacking care

painted palms pressed into eyes

moved as a deathly ancient ice

whispered did I, quietly

whilst others scoffed a bit ignorantly

stand higher, to jest on tip-toe

"Well, I have just told you so."


	5. Repetition

_JUst in case, by chance, I ever forget who I AM, THEN HERE i WRITE A SUMMARY OF WHOM, FOR AT LEAST IN THIS MOMENT, i HAVE BEEN AND WHAT I'VE MEANT BY BEING THAT, and of whatever meaning expresses itself then in which I've been that; its significance or perhaps its lack of, either way: here I write._

 _beLIEFS_

 _I am called a girl, a worker, a thing of unimportance and incapability, a number on a backdrop of white and a deduction of $5 dollars a week out of a heavy pocket gazed upon by heavier eyes, flesh inked in watercolour like the folds of sky beneath twin crescent moons, which lay unblinking in a dusty pale sky that twitches often in dissent of my work. THough I don't know what work could possibly infest itself in this time, especially not from me._

 _I see and hear too much, and think too much of it; or at last Mrs. JUlia says so. BUt what is there to see and hear and think of what I (lackluster-esque and opposite of what had been accused) see and hear and (little) think of: people wandering in circles and wondering why they cannot get out. GERBilS. and people shooting out from their skins, much too fast for even a breath to be let out until burly backs are turned. And i turn my nose up to this, release some endorphins, jump, maybe, throw my arms up and snort and laugh wickedly though I know I shouldn't but i also know I'm right, and I skip off to Mrs. Julia to unlock more secrets and to know more fully that I am right_

 _And that war is not mass hysteria, that mass hysteria is not a surprise, that surprises can never come, and that nothing really can because; if I may make a satirical poke at ptolemy, though the Earth may be, to some spewed of ignorance: the center of everything and that humanity has escalated itself to a supremacy- it, in the end, doesn't make a difference how sound the little heads of people might nestle themselves to ultimately be- we still are stardust- a sudden appearance, groping out to the sky, grasping onto the planets, gagging and gawking numbers and letters and trying to put them together to define the indefinable universe that looms overhead. We have tucked ourselves so deep into a corner of blackness and dust and rock. an unfathomable nothingness, an untamable mass hovering overhead, reeling back from the lengthening of our fingers. and that's what I do; i study theoretical astrophysics: didn't I mention such?_

 _people wonder._

 _And that children wonder why the sky is blue and why the Earth spins round but how could anyone, even myself, conjure up a response for that?_

 _And kids demand to know why a classmate has gone mean, a teacher rotten, a parent abusive, but if we can't even pin down the sky above our heads or the dirt beneath our feet, then I beseech you for the mere consideration of questioning humankind's metacognitive psychosis._

 _And war bREAKS OUT, but i state now in more a surge of passion that it's not just the cries of defiance that set off the nation, it is also that people who can't touch the sky or ground or mean classmate or rotten teacher or Abusive parent or anything inconceivable of that sort- those very people stamp their feet and practically scream,_

" _Why is the WORLD in a war? inhumanity, INHUMANITY. Why!"_

 _rhetoricals do not exist_

 _why_

 _Oh, my nerves split and my head burns, my chest heaves. I leap up and refute,_

" _Why then, it is a matter to you! Of life, there is no life, we are things moved by brains and spines, and in defense of it, I see fit for epidemiologic pondering only, and for political squawks alone. Of right, what is right, but much the same, what is wrong? rebellion, rebuttal, debate and wondering why, when you don't know why 'WHY' to begin with! simplicity can be explained by science but the very foundation of science cannot be translated into provable simplicity. Thinking up small theories, pretty sounds off of an unwilling instrument, soft to the ears, soothing to the internally corrupt gut. Little racers in wagons, pulled by nothing, going nowhere but back and back- whirling round in a Whelm of illusive movement. Cry, you cry, crazed; 'Why have I not made it anywhere new!' perhaps you utter, you utter unjustly, 'this is not where I want to be and I am unhappy!' then look at your toes, static on wood, look at your hands, bound with rope. Then look ahead, and see the same blue orb turning in on itself like a gibbering misshapen doorknob, one you still refuse to turn!"_

" _Not that I blame you. Not that I blame myself, because I do believe I am right there beside you, stuck in a maze, driving a ship full of goods we can't come to unpack- a wheel we cannot turn, oars not for heaving. Just that I slam my fist down, as an educated woman of this time, and in this moment I desperately cling to anyone with sense, anyone who I doubt is in this place. I cling to you, my teeth are in your ears, gnashing, and I speak the only truth I know of and that is of the fact that war is inevitable! death and slavery and hysteria and depression and anxiety and stress and trauma are inevitable! that people will come from this place diseased, but don't they any day? If there was no war, it wouldn't make a difference. If hot headed blokes want to beat up slaves, it doesn't make a difference. If thousands of men march into a ripe field to fire machines and die there, to spill scarlett like sheets from their skins there, and to ruin the place there, it doesn't make a difference. and if a lonely man led by nothing but cold political knowledge marches up to consecrate it, let him do so because it does nothing to raise up nor push down the levelled place we have found ourselves in since the dawn of time."_

" _and a universe birthed of blackness, spun off the chest of an unnamable God, should be shredded, held, matter and masses. time which never began, would never end. laws which nothing COWERS BENEATH. A SCALE SO LARGE LOOM ABOVE MY HEAD. the Universe.. and what are we DOINg about it! though there is nothing to do besides watch it fold and convulse beneath metaphysical whats."_

" _nameless folk, do what you will. People spin off like a top in dust, swallowing glass and ice and long-legged creatures of an ever darkening imagination, feel free to do so, because nothing, not even your sorry self, can prevent occurrences, if you'd consider it. Nation formed from another, metal peeling out from itself to extinguish a flame it never knew, go right ahead because not a thing with the ability in the galaxy to stop you would."_

" _Respond to this as you will, but I say with the ripest vigor... your philosophies do not cease. Your blackened thoughts do not cease. The organs that jump up from beneath the core of the earth onto their sides in the place in which I stand do not cease. And my thinking this will not cease, but I am right, because I know the universe and the breath of mother nature and behind what tone it would witness this subject. Anything done in this world, in this country, in this place, it will not cease because you have done it, and you have burrowed yourself so immensely far into yourself, yourself, and your place, that it cannot cease. It cannot be put out, and it will not be put out, but that doesn't matter. Intelligent people spring themselves up, the greatest minds push themselves past set limits, laugh in pure satire and assume that looking past another is only a move in absolute justice, and that the crushing of hearts and the crushing of brains and of stomachs and bone marrow, and, again, of nothing, is fine. Since it is of everything, but of nothing."_

" _CeASELESSLY noTHing."_

" _and of nothing'_

 _And i often repeat myself in more intense fashions as I speak, drive in metaphysically contradicting attributes, and finish my final argument off with "of nothing". because often this is what I believe. tHat in the end, it is just nothing. Ages and ages move by, and people grow badly and places grow badly and politicians get up on pedestals to place blame. But it is of no one's blame, and of no one's control. Nobody ever got bad, and by god, no place ever did._

 _IT just has been and it proceeds to be and I pray that there are more people besides myself and mrs. julia that knows this._

 _Light. trying to light itself. An unexplainable phenomenon, hopes to evolve into, thougH is naught but a result of unexplainables._

 _political science and social histories might prove that the WAR'S proclamation as just, but humanities proves that no matter how many times it spews, it furls, char, dust, rot forming beneath the lungs of a nation is what it always has been._

 _backwards evolution_

 _Uniformed soldiers are marching and wailing and hooting and pulverizing the atmosphere with muskets, firing between brothers' eyes and deeming a great waterway to form from the now shot-open lids of their family at home. A drawing back of curtain to expose the greatest image of evil for the entire nation to cower beneath. a play on ethics as a regretless hand smites the head of an enslaved racial outlier. ablaze, colour, light. arousing the deepest 'humanity' in all the world, but the only true study of humanities in which I profess, combined with the righteousness of science and the tribulations of philosophical axioms proves this ignition as a useless event. profess_

 _i see forms on the sidelines, waving arms and declaring their opinions, choking on their own poetry and stepping off a wood panel and dipping back up beneath the crushing of a noose that is the insignificance of their own existence._

 _this is what I think now, and what I've often thought recently in the events that invade my head as of now. And of course i think more, of things bigger than our current nation- and things bigger than that, and of that. more commonly i still dwell in my own home, the own cedar chambers of my head, which's roofs meld into the snowy sky above. Everlasting reminiscences of what i sometimes do not wish to know or have ever known, experienced, or come across. And the night which hangs over my eyelashes, blinding my sight, when I find myself comprehending the origins of the universe and the validity of my own individuality...it never fades, not until i've droned myself back to socially expected duty, being a person, doing what persons do, and responding to what other persons do. Persons get happy, hurrah, God BLESS! Persons get sad, damn, god Help.  
but I know that it doesn't make a difference, and perhaps there is no deity above; that they've lost a material of importance to them, whether it be pride or husband, friend or lover, perhaps the will to live. BUt there is nothing I can do, because the fabrication of time is rippling and a clock of absolute time- if i would sit on the popular theories of isaac newton- is sitting constant in the sky, whizzing past our ears at a rate we cannot measure._

 _My hand is aching._

 _But let me keep this set of papers. Let me remember what I've said and what I've meant by saying that in the situation of existentialism and depression in terms of my socially degraded lifetime and in the soil of an intensely corrupt plot._

 _KEEP ME ON MY FEET._

 _Good day you and who and everyone else who i might have subjectively and intangibly mentioned in this arguably labeled vociferate._

 _good day, MYSELF._


	6. And we Travelled to the Mountain

And we travelled to the Mountain, since we've heard it said:

all across - the world, the universe, and things bigger than that, bigger than those things,

and of that, and of that…. everything….everyone

if you will - on such an immeasurable scale was aware, and so was I -

ALL across: even stars and dust would utter, "It is that Mountain!" and they would gesture,

"That big white one! There! Over unpromising hills

blind flesh beneath eyes, cities raised on curses

and ink; surrounded by pine and water and snow. Beyond comparable to the most valuable gold,, that

Mountain is true and owes your visit, your respect: is true, is right - not you! The Mountain is life!

ALMIGHTY!"

Not just those words would constitute

but also legends of Power, absolute: tales of the Rock's blood runnin' down roads like scarlett sheets,

feeding the frolickers, flee'ers and men, pipes and chords and letters on string,

managers, ambassadors, the things that you know.

"It is that Mountain!" barked the highest authorities.  
"Tavel there!" voices leapt from the tongues of bakers and priorities.

"Hear it's word," croaked the wisest bloke in town, "for even the whisper of its wind, the carnage of its frost….anything from that Rock: only words that are true."

"Word," children chanted, "word you should pursue."

And after hearing all of this, we heaved to the North, through tribulations we vowed to persist.

We remembered the promise.

Omnipotent, ice drilled into our ears. Immovable, the sacks beating our backs reminded us.

And as we pushed on we knew, as so many had afore revered,

life breathed into me, life from the Mountain, anew.  
And we travelled to the Mountain: HERE. Phew!

Lent our ears, listen - hush now and listen!

Colours spin, baked cotton fields in the sky whirl off of the immense blue, swirl,

the hair atop my head, it twirls! I fall to my knees, push my face into stones

flame let out, surrender.

I gulp cold air and glass - hush now and listen!  
we've travelled very far. Listen to this now. It is this Mountain.

Here I'll hear it's sacred sound. Bless my ears.

It is this Mountain. Listen. and it

says

nothing.


	7. A more eventful 'Travelling' bit

and a man was travelling

though in no particular direction

glancing upon what he could

through two small panes of glass which

bled of thick, oozing ink

staining sunburnt cheeks

furling with a huff

as two unblinking crescent moons

sat watching in

the folds of a charcoal-powdered

navy sky

and it was the flesh of that man

the face had so firmly inscribed itself

into stone which his

foot turned over and back again

lanky arms grope for the stars

tongue leapt between gnashing teeth

rotted with dust

and once water had rolled off

that moment agog with wonder

at the spewing, blazing

gibbering wings which no longer took

flight

until his palms were boiling

above his head molten rock

and until his eyes had

fallen out from swollen sockets

from loss of air

heads sprouting from other heads

along with their limbs

struck flat to no use

after his trip too far

but still that man is travelling

though in no particular direction

looking to find

a better mind


	8. Who, Author

Once I finished congratulating my own work in prescribing a pen to my hand, I should now offer a formidable setting- which I now feel wise to be placing very first. Either way, let us sculpt a place for this phenomenon to affect.

Relative to most places, contains spatial parts: such as a district, neighborhood, or square. Chosen time period would allow: cognitive minds setting technologically advanced buildings- cement and steel to shield it from such storms. A basic structure of the 20th Century, in which I follow to set characterization.

Though not to bound ahead, I proceed with establishment of a town. A town, rather than a city. A simple town set up at the foot of two oddly shaped mountains. Two oddly shaped mountains, as opposed to two oddly shaped corporation buildings. A miniscule population of MIdwestern folk beneath an expansive and torrenting gray sky. Beneath a sky, instead of a hand.

People did typical things in this town as any other typical people would do them. Beneath the natural beauty of their nationally-named sky, tasting mist and whirling hitherto the sun and the cloud; pines and birches roiled cracked concrete, and out of a pond had sprouted a crooked brass cherry-blossomed-tree, which often gained nothing but a nod, a question, or perhaps a full and satisfying nothing- from passerbyes. Eyes of pearl blue, rings of ginger and copper and black like the blood of a most unfathomable universe; would all peer out out pale sockets to and fro, to glance at the trees dancing in the breeze, to take in and to know- without notions to control, to manipulate.

Therefore people lived freely, and because their hands moved not over others' businesses but their own, and because higher powers did not exist to try the same in a more omnipotent way, I have no more joy in me but to follow such lovely habit, and the folks here are free to

wan

der a

b

oooooooooooooooooooooo

uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu

t .


End file.
